Friendly Concern
by dofunklethegrunkle
Summary: When Stan shows up at your door injured, you're understandably worried. You're just worried that he may figure out your concern is a little more than friendly. Young Stan x Reader


You watch Stan work without meaning to, staring at his back as he leans over the open hood of the car, his arm muscles flexing as he strains to unscrew a rusty bolt from the battery. It's one of the small indulgences that makes your job tolerable, since the hours are terrible and the pay even worse.

You've known Stan as long as you can remember – or at least, known about him. He used to take boxing lessons with your older brother, and he'd been a year ahead of you in high school. Once he'd even defended you against two bullies who had been harassing you, punching one square in the nose and sending them both running away crying. You could barely believe it when he'd showed up at the car shop you were working at several weeks ago. He'd dropped out of high school just two months before he was due to graduate, and you hadn't seen him since.

A year passed and you'd graduated, heading to college a couple states over and dropping out after your sophomore year when tuition had gotten to be too much. You'd managed to swing an apprenticeship at a local mechanic's, and it hadn't been three months you'd worked there before he swaggered back into your life, easily achieving a job after demonstrating his prowess with the inner workings of the cars that came in. You weren't surprised by his skill. His own car, the one he'd had since high school, was a beautiful Diablo he'd fixed up himself. The engine hadn't even worked when he'd gotten his hands on it.

You're attracted to him, for sure. You've had a massive crush on him since you'd started noticing boys. It was really rather unfair that he'd wandered, completely by chance, back into your life just when you were starting to look at other guys.

The day is long, and you spend most of it checking brakes and fiddling with a faulty carburetor until five o'clock mercifully arrives. You're flat on your back underneath a truck when closing time hits, and you feel someone grab your ankle and pull so you roll out, staring up at the garage ceiling now rather than the underside of a car. Stan's face comes into view, grinning down at you. "Day's over," he announces. "Come on. You can get back to work in the morning."

"Thank god," you sigh, sitting up. Stan offers his hand and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet. "Want to grab a burger? That lady this morning with the dead battery gave me a tip. I'm buying."

Stan looks torn "Any other day I'd take you up on that offer, but I've kind of got somewhere to be tonight. Can I take a rain check?"

You're disappointed, but force a smile and nod. "Yeah. Sure," you say, and he gives you a playful salute before he turns and heads towards the door, pulling his car keys from his pocket and twirling them around his finger.

You watch him go out the door, and when it closes behind him rest your head in your hands and sigh. You wish there was an off switch for your feelings. It would make everything much easier.

It's late when you think you hear a knock at your door. You're holed up in your crappy apartment, curled up on your couch with a dog-eared book from an English class you took when you were still going to university. The stray cat who sometimes comes to visit because you leave out table scraps for him is your only company, perched on your windowsill next to the open window so he can make a quick escape if he so pleases. You're humming just slightly, thumbing through your book to find the best bits, when you hear it – three soft taps. They could be coming from your door, but you're not certain because sometimes your refrigerator makes those sorts of noises. The only reason you get up to investigate is because the stray cat streaks out the window and onto the fire escape, a blur of black and white fur. He doesn't act that way when the fridge makes sounds.

Still, it's nearly midnight. You can't imagine why someone might be at your door so late, so you pick up the baseball bat leaning against the wall next to your couch before you go to the door, just in case. It's your only security system.

You can't see anyone through the peephole. That unsettles you. You undo the main lock but leave the chain lock in place, opening the door just a crack to look out into the dimly lit hall. "Hello?" you whisper. Your voice sounds too loud.

You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear a quiet voice coming from near the floor of the hall mumble your name. You recognize that voice. "Stan?!" you exclaim, shutting the door for only a moment to undo the chain lock and throwing the door open again, rushing into the hall and dropping onto your knees in front of Stan. He looks bad. There's blood gushing from his nose over his lips and down his chin, dripping down to stain his shirt, and his left eye is swollen. "Stan, what the hell happened?!" you ask, a little panicked. "Jesus – just, here. Come inside." You get up and offer him your hand, and it becomes even clearer that he's not doing well as it takes all your strength to pull him to his feet, and once he's standing he requires your support as you lead him into your apartment.

"Sorry," Stan grunts. "I feel like I'm crushing you."

You roll your eyes. "I might be short, but I'm not fragile," you mumble, though you have to admit, having Stan leaning all his weight on you is pretty exhausting. He's got over a foot on you in height, and easily over a hundred pounds. Of course, at only 4'10", it's not hard for a lot of people to be over a foot taller than you.

He collapses into the cheap kitchen chair you lead him to, and groans as you rush to relock your door and then to your sink, soaking a rag in cold water and wringing it out before bringing it to him. "Shit, Stan, I hope your nose isn't broken," you mutter, and since he makes no motions to grab the rag from you, you start gingerly wiping blood off his face.

"It's not," he says, his eyes following you. "My nose has been broken before. It was a lot worse than this."

"Well, I guess that's good news," you say, wiping blood off his chin. "You got hit pretty bad, though. And you're gonna have a hell of a black eye." Your fingers brush against his nose and we winces. "Sorry," you mumble. The kitchen is silent for a couple minutes as you continue wiping blood off his face. "What happened, Stan?" you ask, pulling the rag away.

He laughs, a bitter sound. "I was stupid, that's what happened."

"You don't get roughed up this bad just for being stupid," you say sternly. You're not letting him wriggle out of this one. You want answers. "What were you doing?"

He sighs heavily, balling his hands into fists. You notice how bruised his knuckles are. "It was my own damn fault," he admits. It's almost like he deflates right there at your kitchen table. Somehow, he looks… smaller. "I got into bare knuckle boxing," he says reluctantly. "It was a quick way to make some cash, you know? I didn't think it would go as far as it did."

You sit in your other chair, almost lost for words. Honestly, you'd assumed all those nights he turned down your offers to hang out he'd been taking out different girls, really playing the field. You know you shouldn't be, but you're a little relieved. "How long has this been going on?" you ask after several moments of silence.

He sighs, like he knows you won't like the answer. "A couple months."

"Jesus," you mutter, running a hand through your hair as you sit back, looking him up and down. "I guess you lost tonight?"

To your surprise, he grins. "Nope. Knocked the guy out cold."

You stare at him, not sure if you should believe him. He's far too beaten up to have won, surely. He notices your contemplative look, and seems to read your mind. "I wasn't supposed to win," he tells you, sounding pretty proud of himself. "I got offered a lot of money to throw my fight tonight, but the guy was a real asshole. I kept letting him hit me and he was getting cockier and cockier, and finally I couldn't take it anymore. I landed one good punch and he was done."

"So that's why you're so roughed up?" you ask.

His smile falters. "Uh… no. The guys who wanted me to throw the match got to me after."

You groan. " _Stan_."

"I know what you're thinking, but trust me, it was worth it." You want to be mad at him, you really do. He's such an idiot for even putting himself into that situation in the first place. But he looks so pleased with himself, and even all beaten and bruised his smirk is still dazzling, and you know you're going to let it go.

"So what are you doing here?" you ask. "Why aren't you at your apartment?"

"Because the bastards followed me back to my apartment," he explained, a little ruefully. "That's where they jumped me. They promised to be back every night until I paid them all the money they lost betting on the other guy – and I may be a good fighter, but even I can't do much when it's five on one."

"Fuck," you growl, your eyes flickering to your baseball bat. What you wouldn't do to crack one of those assholes' skulls… "Do they know where you work, too?"

"Hell, no," Stan scoffs. "They don't even know my real name. They all think my name's Andy Alcatraz."

You stand up, bringing the soggy, now bloodstained rag in your hands back to your sink. "I suppose we've got that going for us, then," you say, turning on the faucet and dousing the rag in cold water. The water is tinged brown as it trickles into the sink, the blood on the rag growing paler. "You're probably going to have to find a new apartment, though."

"Probably, yeah," Stan sighs, getting up out of the chair. "Listen, I hate to do this to you, but do you mind if I crash here for a while? At least until I get a new place?"

You're fairly certain your heart stops for a couple seconds when he asks. You shut the faucet off a little more forcefully than you should, and it makes an awful wrenching noise. You draw your hand back quickly, praying it isn't broken. The pipes creak for a few moments, then fall silent. You breathe a sigh of relief before turning back to Stan. You're not sure what you're going to say.

You want him to stay here. Hell yes. But you have no idea how you're going to hide your massive crush on him if he's always here. "Um… my couch isn't very comfortable," you mumble. It's the only thing you can think of to say.

He shrugs. "Doesn't bother me. I can sleep pretty much anywhere, you know. I just need a place to stay until those guys give up looking for me." His eyes are pleading. You can't resist those eyes. "I'll pitch in for your rent this month, and groceries. I'll cook, though I'm not that good. Please?"

Before you even register what you're doing, you say yes. Stan's response is to cross your tiny kitchen in three strides and wrap you in a bear hug. You feel him wince, putting too much pressure on what you're guessing may be a cracked rib, but he still doesn't let go. You can't help it. You smile and hug him back.

Two weeks later Stan is still living in your apartment, and you're shocked by how easy it is. You were sure you'd be a bundle of jittery nerves, what with him sleeping on your couch only a room away every night, but strangely enough it's barely bothered you. He's mostly healed by now, and you're happier for it. It pained you to see his black eye every day until it finally faded.

The two of you have fallen into a routine. He's still hunting for an apartment in his price range, and you have to admit you'll be very sad to see him go when he finally succeeds in his quest. You like getting off work and going back to your place with him, cooking dinner with him in your tiny kitchen, and watching old movies or teasing and joking with each other until you both are too tired to function anymore. If he hadn't been your best friend before his extended stay, he certainly is now. And you get the feeling he's starting to think of you the same way. Which would be fine, except you're still nursing an irritatingly huge crush on him.

It's gotten so much worse, living in such close quarters with him. More than once you've caught yourself absentmindedly watching the muscles of his shoulders and back flexing as he did even the simplest things, like reaching into the cupboard over the refrigerator or lifting up your sad, wobbly coffee table and moving it to the other end of your small living room so you both had room to sprawl on the floor.

Even more distracting are his hands. They're big and strong, yet his fingers are still somehow nimble. Lately you've been imagining them grabbing your shoulders, or tracing the curve of your hips, exploring where they please. Those hands have been a prominent feature in your deep-in-the-middle-of-the-night fantasies more than a few times.

You're completely spacing out over those hands when, on his fifteenth night staying with you, Stan announces he's put you out for long enough and that it's time for him to go.

That jolts you harshly back to reality. "What?! No!" you exclaim without thinking, and realizing you sound too desperate try to cover it by continuing, "You said last week when you went to get some of your stuff those guys were still looking for you!"

He offers you a little smile and shrugs. "I can handle them."

That just pisses you off. He came to you two weeks ago beaten, bloody, and bruised because five guys jumped him, and he's telling you he can handle them? You don't buy that for a second. "No, you can't," you say indignantly, turning to one of the cupboards and yanking out a box of pasta so Stan can't see how shaken up you are. "Now stop being stupid and start getting some water boiling on the stove."

"Come on," he says. He's got that sweet tone on. Well, it won't work. Not this time. "I've been butting in on your life for long enough. It's time I leave and let you get back with your usual routine."

He honestly thinks he's being considerate, you realize, which makes it just a little harder to be angry. But you don't want him to go. You can't stand the thought of going back to lonely nights wondering if the stray cat will visit, watching old films by yourself, and thinking about Stan in a way that makes your chest hurt. You love that he's here. You love that he's made your life fun. When he goes you just know your life will dull, like a picture fading from technicolor to black and white.

You're quiet for so long that Stan must assume you're giving him the silent treatment, and he sighs sadly. You hear him pick up his bag and he says, "There's a fight across town. I think I'm gonna go try to make some cash."

You whirl around at that. As much as you despise Stan's leaving, you hate that thought more. " _No_!" you practically shriek, sprinting to the front door and throwing both arms out as though all 4'10" of you is going stop Stan, who is much bigger and stronger than you could ever hope to be, from leaving through it. "I won't let you!" you say firmly, setting your jaw. You start praying the tears you can feel pooling in your eyes won't spill over.

Stan startles you by dropping his bag and bursting into laughter. "Holy shit, I expected that to get a reaction from you, but I never thought you would actually try to block the door!" he chuckles, shaking his head.

You're thoroughly embarrassed now. You feel your face heat up and just know you're blushing. "You – I –" you splutter pointlessly, and decide to quit before you humiliate yourself further.

Stan is clearly extremely amused by your flustered countenance. "That was pretty over the top," he comments, giving you his most dazzling grin. He's taking steps toward you. You don't want him to come closer. If he comes closer, he'll see the tears shining in your eyes. You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

Mercifully, Stan stops a couple of feet away from you. "You're really that dead set against me going back to the fights?" he asks.

You take a deep breath, composing yourself. You refuse to fall to pieces. "Of course I am." It almost sounds more like a question when the words come out.

He takes another step. "Why?"

You swallow the lump rising in your throat. "Because I'm your friend. Because… I'm concerned about you when you do things like that," you mumble. And that wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either.

Another step. He's only a few inches away now. You know he can see your eyes glistening. "This seems like a little more than friendly concern," he says quietly.

You guess it's now or never. You can't really hide the way you feel anymore, not after this display of emotions. Fate has given you this opportunity to tell him – you're sure as hell not going to waste it. Who knows when you'll get another chance as perfect as this? "Because I like you, you asshole, okay?!" you burst out. "Because I care about you!"

So, maybe not quite the romantic declaration you had hoped, but there. It's out.

You can only pray Stan will want what you're offering.

Your mind is overflowing with worries and _what if_ s and the sheer panic of finally telling Stan how you feel that there simply isn't room to process it all when Stan closes the gap between you. It's like your brain short circuits. You're breathing like you just sprinted several blocks down the street instead of making a confession about your feelings. Your heart is pounding relentlessly.

And his hands – those hands you've been wanting to touch you for what seems like forever – are on your hips, and he's leaning in close. "I was wondering when you'd finally say something," he says lowly, and you realize he's teasing you.

"You knew?" you whisper, feeling embarrassment and anger twisting in your stomach. If he's just messing with you, you're going to kill him.

"I guessed," Stan replies easily, flashing you that wolfish grin you adore. You've adored it since high school. "But I didn't want to say anything until I knew for sure."

Your brow furrows. "You mean you were just testing me?"

He laughs. "Well, I had to make sure your friendly concern was more than friendly before I put the moves on you."

"You're a jerk," you whisper, but you know all is forgiven the moment he leans down and crushes his lips over yours.

This kiss is everything you'd ever wanted from him. It's hot and fervent, and damn, he's good at this. He knows just when to add tongue and exactly when to go up for air. When he pulls back you let out an actual whine. "More," you insist, your fingers weaving their way into the hair above the nape of his neck and pulling him back towards you. You stand on your toes to make the distance he needs to cross shorter. He complies more than willingly. His lips go back to yours, his mouth moving at a pace that you try to match, but you're too lost in the sensation to keep up.

Stan breaks away again, instead peppering kisses across your cheek to your neck. You whimper. He hasn't shaved in a couple days, and the stubble scratching against your skin is rough, but by no means unpleasant.

You're very dazed when Stan pulls away completely, straightening out his back and taking a long look at you. "You're okay with this?" he asks. His hands move to your shoulders.

You're a little surprised by the question. Had you not made it apparent? "Of course I am," you say. "Are… are you not?"

"What? No. I am," Stan says very quickly, and you get the feeling he thinks he's screwed this whole thing up by asking.

You sigh and slide your hands down from his neck to his chest. "I've liked you since high school," you admit. "I'm sure you don't remember, but one time you hit a boy who was making fun of me and yelled at him and his friend." You smile at the memory. "I was blown away. I didn't think anyone would ever care about defending someone like me."

"What do you mean, _someone like you_?" Stan asks? "And of course I remember. You were cute and upset, and they were being a couple of dickheads. Why wouldn't I help?"

You shift your weight uncomfortably, not sure you want Stan to know just how insecure you are, really. But the stare he's giving you now is firm and steady, and you know you're going to have to tell him the truth. "Because I'm mediocre," you mumble. "I just… take up space, you know? I don't really have much to offer, and I worry too much about everything, and… well, I sort of exist without doing much."

Stan sighs heavily. His thumb starts moving back and forth slowly so that it just begins to creep up your neck before going back to your shoulder. It's a small gesture, but it sends tingles down your spine nonetheless. "I don't think any of that is true. What would I have done two weeks ago if I didn't have you?"

"Found some other girl?" you suggest sheepishly. "I'm sure you're very popular."

He chuckles. "You're sure, are you?"

Well, not anymore. It's like he's looking right through you. But refusing to let him win even this small battle, you nod once. "Uh-huh. Like I said, it baffles me that you even hang out with me when there's plenty of girls way more worthy of your time."

Stan shakes his head. "Silly girl," he says. His hands shift abruptly, creeping down your sides towards your hips. You inadvertently arch your back. "I can't think of anybody who's worth knowing more than you."

You gasp as his hands clutch your hips and he lifts you up off the ground. Your legs swing around his middle as, almost in a panic, you cling to him for support. But he has you in a sure grip, his strong arms keeping you steady as he presses his lips over yours again. Kissing him this way is much easier. You don't have to stretch your whole body up to reach him, and he doesn't need to stoop down to kiss you.

You hardly notice him carrying you, far too concerned with clinging to his shoulders, maybe even digging your nails in a little to keep yourself upright, until he passes through your bedroom door and lays you on top of the bed. You lie completely still, waiting for his next move. He wastes no time in climbing onto your bed with you, his knees straddling your hips and his hands on either side of your head. His body is pressed against yours and my god, you can _feel_ the outline of his chest muscles and abs – he's in better shape than you've ever been in your life, what with all that boxing – and he claims your mouth with his again.

You feel like you need to contribute something to what you're very sure is about to turn into at the very least a very enthusiastic session of making out, so you lift your hands to his neck, the tips of your fingers creeping into his hair.

Stan makes a soft murmuring sound, lowering his face to begin pressing scratchy kisses to your neck, letting his tongue dart out to flick against the sensitive skin just below your earlobe. His hot breath tickling your ear is prompting a very strong reaction from between your legs.

You gasp when he abruptly shifts position, taking one strong hand and pulling both of yours away from his neck, guiding them above your head and pinning them against your mattress. You can't move your arms at all. Are you supposed to find that as hot as you do?

"So," Stan's low voice mutters in your ear, and you squirm. "What do you want me to do? Anything in particular?"

"I don't have a preference," you mumble. Hell, if he just kept you like this, hands pinned with Stan's kisses on your neck sending jolts of pleasure down your spine, you'd be fine. You just want _more_.

But your answer isn't satisfactory enough, and Stan punctuates every word of his next question with a kiss to your jaw. "What do you like?"

Jesus. You're going to have to tell him. And you were so hoping to keep it a secret. "I don't know," you practically whisper. "I've never done this before."

He pulls back, and you hold back a whine of protest. He releases your wrists and stares down at you. At least he didn't recoil completely. His body is still pressed against yours. "You're a virgin," he says monotonously. You can feel yourself turning completely red as you nod.

He seems more than a little shocked. "I, uh… I didn't know. I mean, wow. Wait – that wasn't your first kiss before, was it?!"

His look is so precious and flabbergasted you have to giggle. You shake your head. "I kissed a guy at university, but it wasn't half as impressive as what you did."

He seems a little more comfortable to know that. "Okay. So, uh… do you wanna put a limit on this, then? Rules?"

You don't want there to be limits. This is Stan. Stan who you've had a crush on for years. Stan who's been nothing but sweet and wonderful in all the years you've known him. "I don't know how far I want to go," you whisper honestly. "But I know that right now I don't want this to stop."

He accepts that – or, you assume he does, since he goes right back to kissing you. But you can feel the shift – he's being just a little gentler, being a little stingier when he nibbles at your earlobe, making sure not to bite too hard. It's a little infuriating, after the vigorous way he'd been going a couple minutes ago – but it's still not bad.

Besides, you discover that if you wait long enough his fervency increases until it's right back to where it was and then surpasses it. Stan sits back and his fingertips slide beneath the hem of your shirt. "Is it okay if I—?" he begins to ask, but cuts off when you immediately respond with an affirmative, before he's even finished the question. He grins and gathers the fabric in his fists, urging you to sit up a bit as he pulls it over your head. He tosses it towards the corner of the room and you fall back again, watching in near bliss as Stan pulls off his own shirt.

God. Those muscles. You can barely believe, after weeks of fantasizing about them, you're seeing them this way. This is just for you. He throws his shirt in the same general direction as yours went and then slides his hands beneath your back, fingers grasping the clasp of your bra. He doesn't ask your permission this time. He undoes it and is tugging it down your arms before you even decide if you're ready, but the minute he has it off of you and you see his face, you know you are.

He's staring at you the same way you see people sometimes stare at things they're in awe of. Art students at classical pieces, history geeks at memorials – and now Stan, at you. And he's admiring every part of what you're showing to him for the first time, as though he's drinking it all in and doesn't dare touch you lest you disappear.

It's too much. Your hands twitch and you make to cover your chest with your arms, but Stan grabs your wrists, still staring. "Don't," he says. "I'm sorry if I made you nervous, but… Jesus, do you have any clue how sexy you are?"

"You think I'm sexy?" you ask, the corners of your lips twitching into a grin.

Stan pushes your hands back to the mattress. "Very," he breathes, lowering his mouth back to your neck, this time trailing kisses across your now exposed collarbone. One of his hands trails up your side, stroking the curve of your breast. A hiss of air escapes through your teeth. You want him to stop teasing you and get to it, already.

Agonizingly slowly, he drags one finger from the side of your breast and skims it across your nipple. A whimper escapes from your throat and Stan grins down at you. "You like that, do you?" he asks, pinching your nipple between his fingers and giving it a gentle squeeze. Your back arches into his touch by way of an answer.

He takes the hint. His hands begin to manipulate both your breasts, squeezing them and teasing you by circling your nipples before rolling them in his fingers, driving you mad. You aren't even aware you're making small noises until Stan chuckles. "Jesus, you're mewling like a kitten. Wonder what kind of noises you'll make when I do this."

"Do what?" you gasp out, but an answer is unnecessary, as he makes it abundantly clear quite quickly what he was talking about. He lowers his face to your chest and his tongue darts out, barely flicking one erect nipple, and you gasp at the sensation before releasing a moan when he takes your breast in his mouth.

It's hot and wet, and god damn, you've never been more aroused. He's very judicious with his teeth, only giving an occasional nip, and being very generous with his tongue, curling it around your nipple and creating just enough suction that he's got you writhing on the mattress.

Without warning he switches to your other breast, and you arch your back further and further up into him, trying to increase the already intense sensation spreading throughout your body. He manipulates your breast for a couple of minutes, and the sensation between your legs grows more extreme with every stroke of his tongue before he pulls away. You melt back into the mattress, letting out several shallow breaths. "Holy shit," you mumble.

"I'm going to guess that's a compliment," Stan says, rolling off of you onto his side, keeping one hand on your ribcage. You wish that hand would travel to more interesting places. "How are you doing?"

"I'm great," you say, a little distantly. You've never felt anything like that before.

"You want to go on?"

You smirk and decide not to answer. You sit up and shove his shoulders back before straddling his hips, running your tongue over your lips in what you hope is a suggestive sort of way. His grin gets wider as you look down at him and then you lower your face until your lips meet the crook of his neck. You trail kisses up to his earlobe, giving it a gentle bite, and grow increasingly satisfied when his breaths become more ragged. You're having some effect.

Good.

You move back down to his collarbone, occasionally letting your tongue slide past the seam of your lips, and then go further, peppering kisses down to his chest. He lets out a loud, prolonged sigh of contentment. When you get to the waistband of his jeans you hesitate, and Stan places his hands on your shoulders and gently pushes you away until you roll back onto the mattress. "It doesn't have to go that far if you don't want it to," he reminds you. "It's fine like this, if you want."

But you shake your head. "I want more," you whisper, curling a hand around the back of his neck and pulling his face close to yours, kissing him as enthusiastically as you can. He mumbles an unintelligible sound of pleasure and complies, cupping your face in one hand for a while before he's on top of you again, breaking his lips from yours and proceeding down your neck, between your breasts, all the way down to your pants. He doesn't hesitate. He draws back, but it's to immediately begin undoing the button on your jeans and slide the zipper down before grasping your waistband and tugging the fabric down your legs and off of you entirely, tossing them aside. "Still okay?" he asks, and you manage a nod.

He curls his hands around your ankles and watches your face as he starts rubbing his hands up your calves, slowly making his way past your knees and to the inside of your thighs. He slides his thumbs beneath the seam of your panties. "Can I take these off?"

"God, yes," you grin, feeling your heart skip a beat. He doesn't ask for further confirmation, sliding those down off your legs, sending them the same way as your jeans. But as soon as they're off, you realize with a startling jolt that you are completely nude in front of Stan Pines, and the thought almost makes you want to cover your face with your hands. You can feel your cheeks turning red.

But Stan is looking at you again the way he did when he first got your bra off, with complete adoration shining behind his eyes, and you take a centering breath. He's been so good to you this entire time, always making sure you're comfortable to continue. You'll be fine.

"God, you're gorgeous," Stan breathes, lowering himself back down over you and grazing a kiss against your forehead. You smile as he rests his forehead against yours, staring into his eyes. He really does have wonderful, deep brown eyes. He grins back and grants you a quick kiss before sitting back up and turning his attention between your legs. He places his hands back on your inner thighs, prying your legs apart. You bite your bottom lip, knowing exactly what to expect but unsure what it will feel like.

Stan slides a finger between your folds and you whimper and shut your eyes. Nothing has ever felt like this. He pauses for just a moment, but seems to decide the noise was one of pleasure before he continues, his finger going just a little deeper, traveling up until he brushes against your clit.

You damn near jump out of your skin at the pleasure that jolts through you, radiating outwards from between your legs. You let out a gasp and your legs spasm. It's like you don't know whether to arch into or away from Stan's touch.

Stan, however, seems to know exactly what to do with you. He smirks and nudges your knees a little further apart before he positions his legs on the inside of yours, making sure you can't move them as he fingers your clit again, this time more directly. " _Stan_ ," you whimper, grinding against his touch, grasping your bedsheets for something to anchor yourself before you float away on the intensity of the pleasure Stan's ministrations are causing you.

You're not really sure at what moment exactly the orgasm begins to rack your body – perhaps it was when Stan reached up with his free hand tweaked one of your still-erect nipples, or maybe it was when you heard him mumble just under his breath, "Come on, gorgeous." Sometime during one of those moments, you fell over the edge. Your legs shook and sweat beaded at the back of your knees. Tingles ran up and down your spine as you arched your back up off the mattress, gasping.

When you come off it, Stan's pulls his hand away and begins rubbing the inside of your thigh. "That was the sexiest thing I've ever seen," he breathes.

It takes a moment for you to register that he's even spoken. "All your doing, babe," you finally breathe, a smile stretching across your lips. "Wow."

"You act like you've never cum before," Stan teases.

You roll your eyes and swat at his arm. "Shut up."

"Make me," he challenges, grinning at you.

You consider the best way to shock him and smile deviously. "Okay."

You shove him back against your mattress and kiss him hard, sliding your tongue into his mouth as you trail your hands down his stomach to the button of his jeans, clumsily undoing it without breaking the kiss. Stan makes a noise of surprise and you feel a pang of gratification as you slide his zipper down and start pushing his jeans down his legs, finally pulling away to pull them off of him.

This time you don't hesitate. As soon as his jeans are off you reach for the waistband of his boxers, and Stan eagerly helps you get them off of him.

Shit. So that's a dick. It's a little weird that you've never seen one in person until tonight, you think. A blush spreads across your cheeks. You're not sure how Stan compares with other guys, having nothing to compare it to, but you're shocked by its size. Especially the girth. You know you want to have sex with Stan, and that's certainly where this is headed, but you're not really sure how Stan is going to fit inside of you.

You take a deep breath. "I've never done anything like this before, so tell me if I'm doing something wrong," you whisper.

"Wait, what are you going to—?" Stan begins to ask, but the question cuts off into a groan as you lower your head and lick him from base to tip. " _Shit_ ," he hisses.

You pause. "Good or bad?"

"Don't stop," he breathes, lacing his fingers behind his neck and tilting his head back, gritting his teeth.

You comply, this time wrapping your lips around his tip and sliding your mouth down around it as far as you can without gagging, teasing him with your tongue as you do so and relishing in the way his breathing immediately becomes more ragged. You realize quickly that you won't be able to fit all of him in your mouth, so you improvise by wrapping your hand around the base of his dick while circling the tip with your tongue. On a whim you very gently drag your front teeth along his shaft and he sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth. As you wrap your mouth around him again he suddenly places a hand on the back of your head and fists your hair in his hands, pulling you back. "Stop," he gasps. "I'm gonna cum."

"That's a bad thing?" you ask, and he smirks.

"Bad for you," he explains. "You women can go for-fucking-ever, but once I let loose I'm done."

He sits up. "Switch with me," he says, and you're more than willing to lie on your back again as he pries apart your legs. He grabs one of your pillows and playfully pats your hip. "Lift up," he orders, and you do. He slides the pillow beneath you and you fall back onto it, your hips slightly higher than they were before.

"What's this for?" you ask.

"Gives me easier access. I recommend you get comfortable, sweetheart. I'm not stopping until you cum."

Jesus, you might have just hearing those words. But then he lowers his mouth until it meets your folds and you swear you could almost pass out for a moment, the sensation is so intense. Your legs are trembling with the first strokes of his tongue, circling your clit for several seconds before he pulls away for just a moment to take a breath and go right back, gently nipping at the sensitive bead. You're so close to the edge, but even though Stan is driving you mad with pleasure you can't seem to reach orgasm. You're moaning and clutching the fabric of your bedsheets, trying to recreate your last orgasm, but it isn't working. "Stan," you whimper pleadingly.

He gets the hint. He reaches up a hand to begin fingering your clit again as his tongue quite suddenly plunges deep, and he curls it upward before moving it back and forth.

That does it for you. Everything melts away into blurs of color and pleasure and you roll your head back and bite your bottom lip, riding out the waves until you can focus again.

"That was pretty quick," Stan comments as he sits back up.

"I'm sure you can tell," you pant, staring up at your ceiling, "that I am pretty turned on."

Oh, trust me, I noticed," Stan replies in satisfaction, lowering himself over you and kissing your neck. "You still good to go on?"

You turn your head to look him in the eyes. "Stan, I've been ready to go all the way with you since you walked into the garage for the first time."

Stan chuckles. "That's pretty high praise. Hope I meet all your expectations."

"Honey, you've exceeded every expectation so far," you tease, kissing his nose. You pull back and just stare at him, loving the adoring expression on his face. "I trust you," you whisper.

He beams at your words, nuzzling his face into your neck. "You're spectacular," he mumbles, and you shudder to feel his hot breath on your skin before he sits back up. "If we're doing this, I'm gonna make it as good as possible for you, okay?"

You feel a twinge of nerves. "Why? Does it hurt?"

"From what some girls have told me, it can the first time for you if we don't do it right. Lucky for you, I'm pretty good at this," he smiles, tracing your hip. "I'm gonna stretch you out first, okay?"

You purse your lips and nod, and he leans over again briefly to kiss your forehead. "Here we go," he says, sliding one finger between your folds, stroking you up and down before very slowly easing it into you.

You wince and he stops. "You okay?"

"It feels weird," you say, a little shakily.

"I can stop."

"No, keep going."

He nods once, keeping his finger still a few minutes longer before pushing it deeper. You feel his knuckles at your entrance. "Can you take another?"

"Give it a second," you breathe, gasping at the stretching sensation. You've never had anything inside you this way before. It's a little disarming, but not unpleasant. Stan waits for you to give him the go ahead, which takes a couple minutes as you adjust. Finally you nod and he adds the second finger, stopping whenever you request and only continuing when you're comfortable. He repeats this process until, after what seems like hours but you know is only minutes, he has three fingers buried inside of you.

"You're so tight," he whispers before pulling his fingers out just slightly and then pushing them back in again.

You jolt. "Holy shit."

"What?!"

"Do that again," you plead, eager to experience the newest of sensations Stan has introduced you to tonight again. He smiles and does so, this time moving them a little further out. You let loose a deep moan, trying to arch yourself further into his touch and let out an actual whine when Stan pulls his fingers out of you entirely.

"Condom," he explains, scrambling off the bed and across the room for his jeans, pulling his wallet out of the pocket and opening it up, taking a condom out from behind his ID. You watch as he unwraps it and rolls it on over his erection, slightly fascinated since you've never even seen a condom before let alone like this, and Stan comes back and climbs atop you again.

You feel his hardness at your entrance and you stiffen, which doesn't go unnoticed. "We can still stop," he assures you.

"No, I'm fine," you insist. "Just a little nervous. I trust you." You wrap your arms around his neck and press your cheek against his chest. "I trust you," you repeat, because it's true. It's one of the truest things you've ever said.

"Hey," Stan says gently, and you look up at him. The moment you do he crushes his lips over yours, and you mumble your pleasure – and then he thrusts into you.

It hurts for just a few minutes, and you whimper against his mouth, but Stan doesn't break off the kiss. He keeps perfectly still inside of you, and you feel his every muscle tense. This must be killing him. He's too good.

In this moment, you're pretty sure you're falling in love with him.

He waits several moments, and begins to move just as the pain starts to fade and turns to pleasure again. It's incredible. He thrusts in and out, and he's stretching you out much more than his fingers did. The intensity is almost too much. You're gasping for air and clinging to Stan for some semblance of an anchor but already the world is beginning to dissolve into starbursts, and when Stan pulls out a little further and thrusts at a more upward angle than he had in the past you're gone, your entire body spasming. Stan groans loudly and you assume he's just orgasmed too, and after several moments he collapses on top of you, his breathing shallow. "Fuck," he gasps.

You only nod, letting your arms fall back onto the mattress. Stan pulls out entirely and rolls off you, keeping one hand on your ribcage. You both are silent for several minutes as you recover, your breathing evening out until you're no longer gasping. Stan gets up and takes the condom off, throwing it in your waste bin and crossing the room back to your bed, climbing into in and wrapping his arms around you. "You're wonderful," he mumbles, smiling and shutting his eyes.

"You're amazing," you reply, returning the embrace.

He makes a noise of contentment. "Oh, I forgot to tell you – I ran into your neighbor today and she's moving out next week."

"Huh."

"I thought maybe I could move in when she's gone," Stan suggests.

You speak without thinking. "Or you could move in with me," you blurt out, and are immediately horrified with yourself. That was just too forward! Oh my god, you probably just ruined everything!

Stan props himself up on his elbows and looks up at you, shocked. "You mean it?"

You bite your lip and nod, turning what you're sure is a fantastic shade of red.

Stan laughs at your embarrassment and kisses you. "I think I'd like that."

"Really?"

"Definitely." He lies back down, pulling you into him. You rest your head on his chest, smiling as you listen to his heartbeat.

"I'm going to sleep now, okay?" he whispers.

"Okay," you whisper back, shutting your eyes. "Good night, Stan."

"Sweet dreams, babe," he breathes.

You listen to his breathing slow and finally allow yourself to drift into sleep.

For once, maybe everything is going to go your way. Stan is here, and he wants you, and for the first time in a long time, you're certain that things are going to turn out okay.


End file.
